by J. R. Rain
Again.
Now the yuruk and I circled each other. I sensed this wasn’t a tango of love. The crowd roared. A young man climbed onto a table for a better view. I promptly told that young man to get the hell off my table. He did.
And then the goat shepherd charged, lowering his shoulders and flaring his nostrils like a raging bull. Or an enraged goat.
I don’t think he expected me to charge back.
Neither did I, for that matter.
* * *
I tackled him low, sweeping him off his feet. It was an old wrestling move of mine; a classic take-down. One moment he was on his feet, and the next his legs had been swept out from under him, and he was on his back for the second time tonight. And as he fell, I turned my hips and drove my shoulder as hard as I could into his chest. Air exploded from his lungs, and from that awkward position, I landed two hard punches to his thick jaw. The sound of bone hitting bone was sickening, although it appeared to excite the crowd.
Except it only angered the yuruk. He bucked hard. Sent me flying ass over heals into the air, to tumble through puddles of beer and God knows what else.
Making a mental note to have Pascal mop the damn place, I scrambled to my feet. I realized too late that the big son-of-a-bitch was waiting for me. As I turned, I saw a flash of brown knuckles—knuckles as big as walnuts—and then the mother of all explosions rocked my head. Stars erupted inside my skull, and I was driven sideways over a chair and straight to the floor. There was a very good chance I blacked out. Or perhaps even briefly died.
Either way, I didn’t want to move. Ever.
Luckily, the yuruk didn’t feel the need to press the matter. I heard him panting somewhere above me, no doubt regaining his breath to finish the fight. I took that moment to clear my head. Rarely, if ever, had I been punched so hard and so squarely and by such a big son-of-a-bitch.
The crowd continued chanting my name. Someone handed me a beer. I took it and sat up and drank as much as I could, relieved that my teeth all seemed to still be in place.
Finally, I stood on wobbly legs.
The yuruk was breathing deeply, fists up, ready to seriously damage my face. I saw three of him. Each uglier than the next. The images swirled and swam and came in and out of focus. I blinked hard, trying like hell to clear my eyes. I opened them again, and the images coalesced into one fuzzy behemoth. Blood from the yuruk’s cut cheek was spreading down the front of his robe in a bloody fan. I had, after all, hit him pretty damn hard myself.
Still, I didn’t want to fight anymore. No mas. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed and close my eyes and make the stars go away.
And almost as an afterthought, the yuruk reached inside his voluminous robe and produced something long and shiny and sharp. I didn’t find that particularly sporting of him. The knife itself, or whatever it was, was long and curved and looked like something out of the Arabian Nights.
The crowd gave him a wide berth. I wanted to give him a wide berth, too. I had just decided that my best course of action was to run like hell when an expression of utter shock appeared on the big man’s face. As if someone had goosed the hell out of him. Then his eyeballs rolled up into his head and his eyelids fluttered like pinned butterflies. A combination of blood and beer dribbled down from his thick hairline, mingling with the sweat and dirt on his face, streaking his face. The knife dropped from his limp hand, clattering on the scarred wooden floor. A moment later, the big yuruk sank to his knees, then pitched forward in a heap of dirty wool and bad attitude.
And standing behind him, looking horrified, was a very beautiful dark-haired woman. She was holding a broken bottle of beer.
Just another night in the back of beyond.
The End
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Vampire Blues
One
On the way to Kingsley’s, just as I passed under a massive billboard of Judge Judy smiling down warmly—yet judgmentally—my cell phone rang. I glanced at the faceplate. Caller unknown.
I clicked on my Bluetooth. “Moon Investigations.”
“Hi,” said the voice of an elderly lady. “I’ve never, you know, called a private investigator before. I’m a little nervous.”
“We’re just like other people,” I said. “Just a lot cooler.”
“Oh, ha-ha.” She laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”
I headed up Bastanchury Avenue, which would soon loop me around to the foothills above Yorba Linda. “How can I help you?”
“Well, I need some help,” she said, pausing. A pregnant pause. I knew pregnant pauses. She had a cheating husband on her hands.
“You think your husband’s cheating on you,” I said, gunning the minivan and just making it through a yellow light.
“How-how did you know?”
“Call it a hunch,” I said. Actually, these days I didn’t know what to call it. My old hunches and my powerful new sixth sense had fused into one. Hunch or not, I wasn’t in the mood for another cheating spouse case. In fact, I could barely stomach them these days. I said, “I’m sorry to hear about your husband, but I’m a little booked right now. I know of a great detective out of Huntington Beach. Actually, don’t let him know that I said that, since he’s already got a big head—”
“No. Please. Please, I want a woman to help me. Only a woman.” She took in a lot of air while I came to a stop at a red light. I was the only one sitting at the intersection. So, who was I waiting for? She went on, “I’m kind of down on men right now, if you know what I mean.”
Actually, I did. I had gone through a similar reaction with my ex-husband, Danny. In fact, I even recalled writing to Fang that I hated all men.
I said, “I’m sure there are other female private investigators who would be more than happy—”
“There aren’t. I’ve looked. You’re the only one in the Yellow Pages. At least, the only one with a woman’s name.”
The light turned green. Kingsley was waiting for me with a chilled glass of the red stuff. I hadn’t eaten in two days. I was ravenous and I was cranky. I said, “Let me be blunt: My own husband cheated on me not long ago. The very thought of working on another cheating spouse case turns my stomach. I’m just not the right person for this.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I could almost see her frowning. Hell, maybe I could see her frowning. In fact, the woman in my thoughts had a thick head of curly red hair. She looked a bit like Lucille Ball in her dotage. Then again, that could have all just been my imagination. And I’d always loved Lucille Ball.
“Well, thank you anyway,” she said. “I will keep looking.”
The pain in her voice found its way straight to my heart. Normally, such pain didn’t register very deeply. After all, I spent half my time hearing heartbreaking stories. But this woman’s pain reached me somehow. Perhaps because I had seen her in my thoughts. Or perhaps because she reminded me of Lucille Ball. Either way, I couldn’t let her hang up just yet.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me give you some advice. Ninety-five percent of the people who come to me with concerns of spousal misconduct are right.”
“So, you’re saying that more than likely he is cheating?”
“I’m saying that more than likely, your instincts are spot on.”
In my mind, I could almost see her closing her eyes and nodding, her red, curly hair bouncing. “I see. Well, that’s not good enough for me, Miss Moon. I need to know. I need to know for sure.” There was a long pause and I could tell she was crying. “I won’t trouble you any—”
“Wait,” I said again, truly hating myself for what I was about to say next. I had a big case I was unofficially working with Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton P.D. and it was getting dangerous. I had stumbled across another victim of the “Orange County Stalker” that was only minutes old—the body still warm with blood pooling under the corpse. I had to stop myself from having a taste and leaving behind my
DNA for the coroner’s office. Self-discipline was a bitch, but far be it from me to taint a crime scene with my own genetic evidence. In the last hour, I had disentangled myself from giving my official statement to the FPD and a copy of my notes on the Orange County Stalker habits—I had worked up a decent profile on her. Yes, I said her. Sherbet was going to try to pay me for my work from some grant money for crime tippers which was way cool in my book since my kids both had dental appointments coming up. My sister, Mary Lou, had the kids at her house tonight and I planned to see Kingsley for some growly R&R and a much-needed feeding. I didn’t have time for cheating spouses. I didn’t want to deal with cheating spouses. I hated cheating spouses. But despite all of that, and my growling stomach, I heard myself say: “I’ll help you. Tomorrow. The investigation on your husband should be a quick one.”
She thanked me profusely, and when she was done, I asked why she thought her husband was cheating. As I wound my way to Kingsley’s massive estate, she told me the usual story. Husband was staying out later than normal. Showering immediately when he came home. His excuses were never very good and she knew in her heart that he was lying. Her husband, apparently, had never been very good at lying.
Mostly, though, she was confused and lost. Her husband had been such a good man for so many years. A great provider. A great friend. Always there for her, even as she now battled cancer. Hell, even more so. Every day, he told her how much he loved her. Every day, he made her feel like a princess. She asked me why would he do this to her and I didn’t have an answer, except to say that men were pigs. I immediately hated this one.
I gave her a checklist of information that I would need, including her hubby’s personal and professional info and up to five recent pictures. I gave her my email address and she said she would get right on it. Whoopee.
She hung up, but before she did, she thanked me again. As I clicked off and pulled up to Kingsley’s gaudy estate, I recognized the painful irony of the situation: She was thanking me to confirm her worst fears.
I had a helluva job.
Two
The next day, I had thirty minutes to kill before my appointment with Jacky, my boxing trainer.
Sitting in my minivan in the blessed shade of a pathetic magnolia tree, I went through my emails on the iPhone and found an attachment from one Gertrude Shine. The old lady from yesterday, I was sure of it. Sighing, I opened it and found five pictures of an aged man with a thick mustache. Included with the pictures was the man’s personal information, and I was struck again by the intrusive nature of my job. The man in the photo was a complete stranger. But pretty soon, he would be all too familiar, so familiar that I would be instrumental in the destruction of his marriage.
No. He was instrumental in the destruction of the marriage. I was just reporting the facts.
I closed my eyes, rubbed them. I didn’t have to take the job. I didn’t have to take any job. Except Danny had yet to pony up any child support, let alone alimony, despite making five times what I made.
Despite openly cheating on me.
I studied the son of a bitch in the photos. Two of the photos depicted him standing with a large woman with red hair—the same woman, I wasn’t too shocked to see, that I had seen in my thoughts.
I’m getting stronger, I thought. Indeed, my psychic powers now seemed to be increasing daily.
Anyway, the couple did not seem very happy, and I didn’t think that was a psychic hit. Anyone looking at the pictures could see that. They weren’t holding hands; in fact, they weren’t really standing close to each other. The man was dumpy, but looked strong. Probably in his youth he had been an athlete but had let himself go to hell. He had broad shoulders that were mostly fat now. His mustache seemed to change from picture to picture, growing thicker and longer in some. I had asked for recent pictures, but these were clearly separated by months or even years.
I was parked on the street outside the gym, on a sweltering day in Southern California, where even in the shade the temperature was probably in the high eighties. I probably should have been sticky with sweat, but I wasn’t. In fact, I was cold. So damn cold. Vampire cold.
Her husband’s name was CS Shine, and according to Gertrude’s email, that’s all her husband went by: CS.
Seriously? What kind of pompous ass goes by initials these days? I never understood it and probably never would. Initials did not a name make.
CS Shine. He sounded like a cruise ship.
Anyway, CS Dumbass actually worked nearby—at a bakery of all places.
So, I checked the time on my cell, saw that I had another twenty-five minutes before Jacky would start yelling at me to keep my boxing hands up, then started the minivan and headed east on Commonwealth.
To the only bakery in town.
And to CS Dipshit.
Three
I’d seen the bakery over the years, but had never made it inside. And since I doubted they served plasma-filled turnovers, these days, I had even less reason to go inside.
For now, though, I parked across the street and took in the scene. We were still technically in downtown Fullerton, but we were pushing it. The buildings here were mostly part of newer chains, with hipster apartments above and clean sidewalks out front. Part of Fullerton’s attempt to commercialize its downtown. For the most part, the idea worked. The older stores had gotten a facelift, and now the whole area was buzzing with activity.
The bakery had a decidedly Old World feel to it, as if it had been transplanted brick by brick from the back streets of Italy or France. It was tucked between some of the newer buildings, and I could just see the owner, CS Loser, indignantly holding his ground, progress be damned. No doubt, he had turned down large of sums of money to buy his bakery, thumbing his nose at the establishment.
Of course, I could be wrong, but this was a borderline psychic hit. If so, you could take it to the bank.
Anyway, the windows out front advertised cream puffs and fresh baked breads. There was a yellowed poster of an apple pie in the window. Another displayed a stack of what had once been a fresh-baked batch of cookies. Now they were so faded they could have been a pile of cow pies.
Undeterred by the shabby window dressings, customers poured in and out of the bakery. Many held pink boxes or white bags. I was willing to bet that Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton P.D. frequented the place. Stereotypical, I knew, but the man had a huge sweet tooth. He also had a nice, round belly. The two were not mutually exclusive.
Through the dusty glass, I could see a man working. An older man wearing an apron. There was also a much younger woman working there, too. A cute younger woman who smiled a lot through the window, and it was obvious that she made every customer feel welcome. I hated her immediately. Home-wrecking bitch.
Easy, girl. You don’t know that.
Girls who smiled at everyone made me nervous. Married men responded to those smiles. Married men thought those smiles were directed only at them. Married men acted on those smiles in stupid ways.
Especially married bosses.
I watched the scene for the next twenty minutes, absorbing the details of the girl, of the man, the way they seemed to work effortlessly in tandem. Sometimes, he appeared out front and graciously spoke to customers. Mostly, he worked in the back, no doubt making his pies and cakes and all the things that I couldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
By the time I left, I was certain the two were a little too chummy, a little too comfortable. Something was up. That much was certain, and Gertrude, I think, had every right to be suspicious.
Now, she just needed proof, and that was the hard part.
Four
Mary Lou and I had just finished our weekly round of drinks at Hero’s. Yes, I still frequented Hero’s. Yes, I still IM’d Fang. Yes, I knew he was a killer.
Aaron Parker, aka Fang, raised serious moral issues with me, moral issues that I often struggled with. That he was a head case, there was no doubt. Anyone who grew up in the environment in which he had grown up, i
n the circumstances in which he had grown up, would have had similar issues. Or not. Perhaps it was a perfect storm of craziness and circumstance.
Either way, at age seventeen, a very delusional Aaron Parker had killed his girlfriend, sucking her dry. His story had been a sensational one. Even more sensational was that the young man had escaped a high-security psychiatry ward, killing two more men in the process.
That had been almost two decades ago. Aaron Parker, of course, now went by an assumed name, and as far as I could tell, he had had some facial reconstruction surgery. He was still a wanted man, and he just so happened to be our bartender and my confidant.
No, I hadn’t known about his past. I didn’t know who the hell he was, truth be known, until six months ago, when we had met for the first time. Or, rather, when he had re-introduced himself. Turned out that he had stalked me and found out who I was and where I lived.
And this was where I struggled. Fang had proven time and again, to have my best interests at heart. That he was obsessed with vampires was another thing entirely. Another thing that I chose to ignore. In fact, I chose to see only his good side, a side that had been touching and human and endlessly informative.
Therein lay my quandary.
I had grown close to him over the years—very close. It wasn’t until six years had passed that the truth came out. I should have been pissed. I should have felt violated. To be sure, I had flirted with both emotions. Mostly, in the end, I saw him as a deeply troubled man.
Not to mention, we had a psychic connection that I couldn’t quite place my finger on. No doubt the connection was rooted in our close friendship. Indeed, the closer I got to people, the more I could read their minds. The interesting thing about Fang was this: he could also read my mind.